sandwich, carefully avoiding his mother's eye. "You have no idea. Only this morning, Mistress Kitty batted her lashes at me and demanded I write her a love note. Do you think her too young to desire such a thing?"
"I could not say. Kitty has always known you would marry. There is perhaps a trifle more familiarity between you than is strictly proper. However, I have the utmost confidence in her and in you to conduct yourselves in a manner that is fitting with your station." She paused for a sip of tea. "Do you not think Kitty amenable?"
"She is most pleasant and thoughtful of others. It is probably all that praying," he reflected drily and looked up. "She cried when I told her father…"
His mother touched his hand.
He straightened and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Well, what does one say in a love letter to a lady of tender years? Though it seems a foolish endeavor, I would hate to disappoint her."
"Your previous comment would do nicely. She is pleasant and thoughtful of others. Then again, anyone could tell her those things." She shook a finger at him. "If she asked specifically for a love letter, you will have to say something more personal."
"How could one be more personal than that?"
"I suggest it might behoove you to read a book of poetry. If you are not so inclined to write your own, then you might copy a few passages and attribute them to Kitty."
"It is acceptable to adopt another man's words for your own?"
"In the case of romantic poetry, it is."
"I cannot do it. She can be happy with my words or she can do without." He thought for a moment. "But I will avail myself of a few examples." He thrust another crumpet in his mouth and stood with determination. If it would make Kitty happy, he could do this. "I'm off to the library, Mother. By the way, I have arranged to ride over the estate with Mr. Timmons this afternoon. There are some tenant houses in need of repairs."
She smiled fondly at him. "An excellent idea."
John perused the collection of love sonnets residing in the tall stacks of the library. Some books were well-worn, while others appeared almost new. He spotted a volume of Shakespeare and reached for it. He'd enjoyed Shakespeare's plays at school.
Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
He shoved the book on the shelf. There had to be something better. He picked up a slender volume, its well-worn cover bearing testimony to much use.
Inside the cover, he recognized his father's handwriting. "To my darling Teresa- As I am ever tongue-tied in your presence, I give you these words as a token of my high esteem. May you find in them the romance your heart desires."
Under the heartfelt words, his father had written page twelve. John turned to it and began reading.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Come live with me and be my love
Heat rushed to his face, as if he'd interrupted his parents in a private moment, and the book nearly slipped from his hands. How could his father have offered his mother such drivel? Knowing the true nature of the man, he supposed there had to be something about the duke that had attracted his mother.
Hoping for something more suited to Kitty's tender years, John turned the page and was even more affronted. My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.
He leaned against the bookshelf and sighed. She was much too young for this type of endeavor. He would have to devise something on his own.
Bartholomew stepped into the library as John moved away from the shelves. He slid the volume of poetry in his waistcoat pocket.
"Ah, my young nephew, are you pursuing literary enlightenment?"
John ignored the question and studied his uncle's attire. His neatness had improved; not a wrinkle in sight. No doubt, due to the duke's valet. The man couldn't stand to see good fashion wasted on slovenly fools. However, once again his uncle wore a combination of tawdry colors, a virulent shade of puce and pink for his waistcoat,
"I could not say. Kitty has always known you would marry. There is perhaps a trifle more familiarity between you than is strictly proper. However, I have the utmost confidence in her and in you to conduct yourselves in a manner that is fitting with your station." She paused for a sip of tea. "Do you not think Kitty amenable?"
"She is most pleasant and thoughtful of others. It is probably all that praying," he reflected drily and looked up. "She cried when I told her father…"
His mother touched his hand.
He straightened and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly. "Well, what does one say in a love letter to a lady of tender years? Though it seems a foolish endeavor, I would hate to disappoint her."
"Your previous comment would do nicely. She is pleasant and thoughtful of others. Then again, anyone could tell her those things." She shook a finger at him. "If she asked specifically for a love letter, you will have to say something more personal."
"How could one be more personal than that?"
"I suggest it might behoove you to read a book of poetry. If you are not so inclined to write your own, then you might copy a few passages and attribute them to Kitty."
"It is acceptable to adopt another man's words for your own?"
"In the case of romantic poetry, it is."
"I cannot do it. She can be happy with my words or she can do without." He thought for a moment. "But I will avail myself of a few examples." He thrust another crumpet in his mouth and stood with determination. If it would make Kitty happy, he could do this. "I'm off to the library, Mother. By the way, I have arranged to ride over the estate with Mr. Timmons this afternoon. There are some tenant houses in need of repairs."
She smiled fondly at him. "An excellent idea."
John perused the collection of love sonnets residing in the tall stacks of the library. Some books were well-worn, while others appeared almost new. He spotted a volume of Shakespeare and reached for it. He'd enjoyed Shakespeare's plays at school.
Sonnet XVIII
Shall I compare thee to a summer's day?
Thou art more lovely and more temperate
He shoved the book on the shelf. There had to be something better. He picked up a slender volume, its well-worn cover bearing testimony to much use.
Inside the cover, he recognized his father's handwriting. "To my darling Teresa- As I am ever tongue-tied in your presence, I give you these words as a token of my high esteem. May you find in them the romance your heart desires."
Under the heartfelt words, his father had written page twelve. John turned to it and began reading.
The Passionate Shepherd to His Love
Come live with me and be my love
Heat rushed to his face, as if he'd interrupted his parents in a private moment, and the book nearly slipped from his hands. How could his father have offered his mother such drivel? Knowing the true nature of the man, he supposed there had to be something about the duke that had attracted his mother.
Hoping for something more suited to Kitty's tender years, John turned the page and was even more affronted. My Love is Like a Red, Red Rose.
He leaned against the bookshelf and sighed. She was much too young for this type of endeavor. He would have to devise something on his own.
Bartholomew stepped into the library as John moved away from the shelves. He slid the volume of poetry in his waistcoat pocket.
"Ah, my young nephew, are you pursuing literary enlightenment?"
John ignored the question and studied his uncle's attire. His neatness had improved; not a wrinkle in sight. No doubt, due to the duke's valet. The man couldn't stand to see good fashion wasted on slovenly fools. However, once again his uncle wore a combination of tawdry colors, a virulent shade of puce and pink for his waistcoat,
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